RESURRECTION

RESURRECTION OF MY LAST BLOG POST
For reasons unknown, my last blog post vanished. I mean poof! It was gone. “Error 403” or “Error 404”’was all I got. No trash, no delete, no “sysop [Charlie] forgot,” nothing. I figured, like taking away my curly hair, God smote me for the sin of pride because I had fun writing it. Charlie thinks the machines are paying me back for my mistreatment of them. I think it’s the Russians, and I told Charlie not to pay the ransom. So here is my resurrection re-write, sans final edit embellishments.

But first a note to my vanished post’s 8 commenters: you are my heroes. Okay, I failed to include the mysteries of William Kent Krueger. I like him a lot, and with his Cork O’Connor, WKK is to northern MN, as Paul Doiron is to ME, or as C.J. Box is to WY. Maybe most telling, WKK shared a writers’ group with two of my Metro State colleagues.

Now, finally, the vanished post is resurrected!                                                                                        x x x x x x x x x xxxx x x x x x x x x xx x x x x x x x x x x x x x  x x x x x x xx x xx

BOOKISH INCIDENTS REPORT                                                                                    [This is a bookish post, in the spirit of economist Paul Krugman’s wonkish NYT “posts”.]   

Democracy is bruised, but unbroken, and now, the healing can continue.  Thank you for voting.                                                                                                                                                  Today’s haiku:  My new bit of twit-speak is LNU for Last Name Unremembered.  which is useful for aging book recommenders.  Charlie argued that ”forgotten” is more accurate, more Twitter-ish, and asked, “Was “unremembered” even a word?”  Well, Google Editor knows it is, and, dictionaries say that “unremembered” can mean “unrecorded” or not available to be known and so, without further quibbling, and, recognizing that the oldie brain is a wondrous thing, LNU the Twit bit shall remain.  

 ONTO THE BOOKISH PART:                                                                                            Friend Sara, who reads a lot of mysteries and sci-fi, and who knows what else, [and who knows that I don’t read sci-fi because it is NOW with some differences inserted, e.g. power, technology, climate, and a hypothesized THEN described ad infinitum, and I usually quarrel with the inserts or their effects], wanted to exchange current good reads with which to face whatever is next.  I said, “Sure,” to mysteries. 

Read Andy Borowitz’ “Profiles in Ignorance”, watch boats, and sigh.

  SARA’S LIST with my comments:

Sinister Graves, by Marcie Rendon is set in 1970’s Minnesota on the White Earth Reservation. New to me, sounds good, so I 1-click ordered the first of her Cash Blackbear trilogy, Murder on the Red River.  I am, after all, a child of Wahpeton, ND, the “head of the Red” River.                                                                                                                                      Craig Johnson (Hell and Back) new- and everything else he has written.  I liked a lot the six seasons of Longmire, based on Craig Johnson’s mysteries, but his Wyoming-set books, not so much.  C.J. Box, with his 4 generation heritage,  is my go-to guy for Wyomig, especially with ranger Joe Pickett and wife, Marybeth, town LIBRARIAN!  Sara does not like the Netflix? video option.                                      The Cartographers, by Peng Shepherd, is already on my partly-read list, and so far, it’s a finisher.  Mary Wagner recommended it to me, and she was an excellent recommender, but a mystery with maps would have caught my eye for at least a first thought.                                                                                                                                 Desolation Canyon, by PJ Tracy, is the second of the author’s works set in LA, a departure from the Minneapolis-based mysteries she co-wrote with her mom, who died recently.  I often choose books  for a location and its culture, and Michael Connelly’s Harry Bosch and Joe Eid’s I.Q. are enough LA for me right now.                                  The Counterclockwise Heart, by Brian Farrey is fantasy.  I KNEW she’d try to slip one by me.  Too many other books I’d rather read more.                                                        Two Storm Wood, by Phillip Gray, treads the ground and some of the mysteries of post -WWI carnage.  For now, Charles Todd’s Inspector Ian Rutledge’s post-WW1 World is all I can stomach.                                                                                                      Shadows Reel, by C.J Box is fun, just to anticipate.  I’ve already 1-click pre-ordered it. I love this series for many reasons, but one big one is his even-handed treatment of environmental issues.  Only problem is that Lynne Cheney, past spoiler-Director of the NEH does, too. Noteworthy daughter, Liz, suggests she’s a good mother, though.

Ponder Maira Kalman’s “Women Holding Things”, love, love them, and be proud.

MY LIST of current mysteries is split:   ALREADY READ and WAITING:        ALREADY READ, waiting for next one–if there is a next one:      

Elsa Hart’s Li Du Trilogy, set in 18th Century, SW China.  Love the books, learned a lot, AND Li Du is a librarian.                                                                                                        Jane Harper’s Aaron Falk Trilogy, set in contemporary Australia.  Third volume due December, 2033.  Another good Australia read is Peter Temple’s Jack Irish mysteries, which are also a series on Acorn, which is inexpensive and home to other pertinent, beautifully filmed series. Paul Doiron’s Trooper Mike Bowditch mysteries, set all over interior and coastal Maine.                                                                                                    Elly Griffiths’ Archaeologist and Professor Ruth Galloway mysteries, set in Norfolk by the sea, in NE England.                                                                                                Val McDiarmid’s DS Karen Pirie mysteries, set in St. Andrews, Scotland.          Peter May’s Lewis Trilogy, set in the Outer Hebrides of Scotland.                         Daniel Silva’s Gabriel Allon, part of Israel’s Mossad’s very contemporary activities.        David Ignatius, my CIA and Middle Eastern go-to guy and a Washington Post columnist.

MYSTERIES WAITING, IMPATIENTLY

While Justice Sleeps, by Stacy Abrams. Likened by Scott Turow to John Grisham’s The Pelican Brief, which I liked, and Ms. Abrams will know the government’s ways of which she writes.

Saratoga Paycheck by Stephen Dobyns.  Herein,  Charlie Bradshaw  is retired, but not tired, and so am I.  Great series, set in upstate NY, as is the Clare Fergusson / Russ VanAlstyne series, by Julia Spencer-Fleming, which I also like. Stephen Dobyns is also a poet, which I like, because poets don’t waste words. 

My Darling Detective, by Howard Norman.  I loved Howard Norman’s earlier mystery, The Bird Artist, with its layers and setting, and this one also has layers and probing, and setting on the Canadian Maritime coast.     

Writ in Stone, by Cora Harrison.  Book 4 of The Burren Mysteries, set in 16thC West of Ireland, brings to mind the Sister Fidelma mysteries by Peter Tremayne, which I liked a lot and which give potential to my increasingly tonsured head. 

CODA                                                                                                                                                I can’t remember what I said after this listing in the vanished post, except to acknowledge that I had gotten carried away AGAIN, that I had more BOOKISH INCIDENTS to report, and that I had to get reading-ready for Poetry Club.  Hint: I love Wislawa Szymborsrka.   More to come. 

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CIVIC DUTIES

VERY BAD NEWS

The ding-dongs are at it again, banning books they don’t like and may never have read.  Stephen King brings it home with a great review of Celeste Ng’s new dystopian novel, “ Our Missing Hearts,” in which, among other  appallingnesses, library books are pulled from the shelves and turned into toilet paper. He says, “On another level, ‘Our Missing Hearts’ is a meditation on the sometimes accidental power of words. Why are Mr. Gardner’s library shelves so empty? Because students must not have access to books that ‘might expose them to dangerous ideas.’ This isn’t dystopian fiction but actual fact, as rancorous school curriculum meetings and protests across the United States have proved. The Florida Parental Rights Bill, signed by Governor DeSantis in March of this year, is basically a free pass to text censorship.”  Gasp!

VERY GOOD NEWS 

Libraries are unbanning books!  Of special note is the Unbanned Books Program of the Brooklyn Public Library.  BPL is issuing an e-card to ANY TEENAGER who applies, and with that card any user has access to the 500,000 e-reader titles, free of charge.  New York Public Library is making books available through its SimplyE reader app in a campaign called Books for All. The app is downloadable without a library card.  Thank heavens for Ellen’s good work with technology and networking in NYC classrooms. And Seattle Public Library is encouraging everyone to read banned and challenged books in order to show support for reading, authors, and access.

CIVIC DUTY ALERT! 

Ode to beings that blossom in the Fall:  We are many, are we you?

 

 What is a book lover, who values freedom to choose and use, to do?             1.Run for your local library board, or guilt other good choices into doing so.  Andy Borowitz accepted an invitation to join his local Library Board in Hanover N. H.  As he explained, “I realized that libraries are now political because people want to keep certain books out of our children’s hands, so if I really want to participate in democracy and not just talk about it, then I had to say yes.” My niece, Susan, in suburban Boston would be great on the Library Board, as would Scott, who is already busy with the Historical Society, Brian, Steve after he moves, or Ann in St. George.    

 [An aside: With my Kindle 1-click ordering,  which Charlie threatens to dismantle, I just bought Andy Borowitz’s new book, “Profiles in Ignorance: How American Politicians Got Dumb and Dumber” which I will read as soon as I hurry through C.J. Box’s latest Cassie Derwall mystery, Treasure Chest, which is good, but not as much fun as the next best thing promises.]

2.”Intrude’’ everywhere, anytime, to highlight the infinite potential that free access to libraries makes possible.  Putting it less delicately, “butting-in” is one of my major superpowers.  Some examples: 

Example:   Millie’s excellent grandson, Magnus, is running for Freshman Class President, using as his platform, a Socrates’ quote: “Democracy is only as good as the education that surrounds it.”  I immediately emailed Millie to be sure that Magnus remembers to note  that “education” means “intelligent voters,” or people who ask  questions [Socratic method alert!] and search for answers [in libraries, etc.], before and after voting.  Surely, Socrates would have agreed if he had lived 200 years later, when the Alexandrian Library thrived.  No reply, yet, from Millie.

Example:  Charlie, lifelong friend Ben, a reader and lifelong party to my suggestions, his excellent daughter, Margaret, and I met just before she became a freshman at Montana State University in Bozeman.  I dived right in and asked her if she used libraries.  She said “Not really,” which I think is polite teenager-ese for “No.” I gasped, took a moment to recover, and suggested she might want to get to know the Bozeman Public Library, in case the Montana State U Library runs out of what she needs [as Marquette U’s Library did when I needed a Shakespeare play. So I went to the Milwaukee Public Library and checked out Troilus and Cressida, not Shakespeare’s best, — okay, it was the only one left on the shelf  — and finished the assignment on time.].  And  being totally with it,  I noted that the Bozeman PL has ebooks.  I casually.  mentioned I would email her some irresistible book suggestions She looked pleasantly unenthusiastic.  I liked her a lot and suggested:  Two of my favorite memoirs: Hope Jahren’s Lab Girl, because Margaret was working in a lab and loving it, and is a probable STEM major; Leanne Shapton’s Swimming Studies, because she is a swimmer; and two good mystery series set in or near Bozeman: Jamie Lee Harrison’s 4 murder mysteries, set in Blue Deer, MT, near Bozeman.  Edge of the Crazies is the first; and C.J. Box’s Cassie Derwall, PI mysteries: The Bitteroots  and Treasure Chest, both with her office set in Bozeman.  Follow-up at Thanksgiving, maybe.

UNBAN THE BOOKS!  FREE THE IDEAS!  Read a book.  Be all you can be.

Example:  At the Poetry Club meeting, I handed out “Unban the Books” bookmarks [Handmade,  thanks to Amy.] to a very modest reaction.  Reilly thought his bookmark said “Urban the Books” [He was once an urban researcher.], which was not okay as it excluded my rural roots.  So we compared who read the most-challenged book while we were in HS.  Well, nobody beats his [D.H. Lawrence’s] Lady Chatterley’s Lover, but I’ll argue that Alan Paton’s Cry the Beloved Country was more dangerous.  So there.  And no one left a bookmark on the table, which I consider a good sign.

Anne, who is in the Poetry Club and convenes the Shakespeare Reading Group, works with Seattle PL to get copies of the chosen play, albeit in different editions, but hasn’t yet run into the banned book issue.  I offered to try to get Shakespeare banned, or at least challenged, at SPL so she and her group could do their civic duty, and read a banned or challenged book.  I lost her halfway through that idea. But the next day, she casually put her “Unban the Books” bookmark on the Ballard HS Librarian’s desk, not knowing that Susan, who convenes the Book Club, was both looking at Seattle PL’s list for Book Club choices and working with the Ballard HS Librarian on a  project to have Ballard HS “teenies” and Landmark “oldies” read  the same book and react to it. Good work, Anne.  I gave Susan my last, first run. Unban the Books bookmark.  Clearly, we are weaving an untangled web.  Any suggestions?  

OTHER CIVIC DUTY

Which is the Nordic Swan?  Only one is made of plastic bucket lids.

 On the way to the Lockspot’s cinnamon roll, I rolled on the smoothly black-topped bike trail to familiarize the bicycle riders with the growing number of happy rollers of an age out and about in Ballard and the world.  Okay, there was one little incident.  I mean, who could hear the little ding-ding of the bicycle horn?  Especially with street traffic to my right.  Charlie said I was in the middle of the two bike lanes and wiggling.  I explained it all.  He’s threatening AGAIN to get an air horn, mostly for  my mask violations.

So many civic duties to do, so many a “that’s illegal”  from Charlie.  What’s a civic duty activist mother to do?

 

 

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AT THE ZOO from A to Z

Big excitement here.  We went to the zoo.  “FIELD TRIP!  FIELD TRIP!“ Charlie chanted, inappropriately. It was my first time on the city bus, albeit with a minder, and my first time wearing my safari-ish hat.  Cristy, who is our fitness person, event planner, and my minder, asked me to write captions for the way-too-many pictures she was bound to take.  I said I would make up an alphabet of the zoo trip, and she could decide what pictures to put with what letters. She agreed and also agreed to the 17 syllables of haiku – I think to control my rambling. 

  ZOO TRIP ALPHABET  in haiku [with personal asides in italics]   

 A is for ANTELOPES, pictured, not grazing with zebras, giraffes, and?                     First “lettered” animal I did not see.                                                                                                B is for BARNS with tall doors for proud giraffes or raised cherry-pickers.                         I think.  Nothing actually happened.  Handsome structure, though.                                      B is for BUS RIDES – – easy and fun, if curb cuts and sidewalks are near.                    And no fentanyl fumes! First trip [so to speak] on a city bus.

C is for CIRCLES, with confused multitaskers coming and going.

D is for DIETING, which the TAPIR and RHINOS might want to try. 

E is for EATING which many were,  bending over, displaying rumps.   

Maine has blueberries, Washington has cherries,  grown “closer to the moon.” 

 

F is for FENCES – many, mostly hidden, but comfortingly real.  

G is for GAZELLE, antelope kin, big toothpick horns, and third grazer.   .  

G is for GIRAFFE, nibbling high leaves, and leaving low leaves  for shorties.

H is for  HALLELUJAH DAYS with questions raised and fresh air basked in.

H is for HIDING animals, which I would be, too, if I lived here.

I is for IBEX: long curved horns, antelope kin, not third grazer, ARGHH!. .                  Second “lettered” animal I did not see.                                                                                         J is for JUNGLE foliage, which was claustrophobia-inducing.                                              I am a prairie person, breathing best with a big sky.                                                                K is for KIDS, many, energetic, noisy, and oblivious.

L is for LOST, which we only once were.  Tough herding oldies and cats.                         Too many viewng  circles with people-hiding foliage, off the black-topped path.              M is for the MANY OF US who had a very good time.  Yay day!                        

N is for NONSENSE: questions and comments that make everything more fun.

O is for OBSERVERS: we oldies-but-goodies, and kids, lots of k ids.                               And mothers with space-eating strollers, talking over my head.                                             O is for ORANGUTANS, who live, play and wear a blue shirt in trees. 

P is for PYTHON, thankfully in fogged-up cage, so I couldn’t see.                                 Third “lettered” animal I did not see.                                                                                              Q is for QUESTIONS with few answers that made the ZOO such a treat.

R is for RAILINGS with see-through cutouts at chair height.  Enlightened design

R is for RHINOCEROS,  like submerged rocks in the waterhole.

S is for the “SCREW” TREE.  Is it topiary art or Mother Nature’s sense of humor?  . 

 

Look way-back and see Screw tree; look up-front and see new safari-ish hat.

S is for SIAMANGS, “howlers,” in trees, black-furred, lesser apes, unseen.              Fourth “lettered” animal I did not see.                                                                                             T is for TAPIR, a giant, fuzzy, pillow against viewer glass.

U is for UNDERGROWTH, dense, but not intrusive. I like sunlit space.                           [See “J” and “L” above.]                  

V is for pretty good VIEWING, better when it’s lower for chaired-folks.      

W is for Googled WARTHOG, with  hoggy rump and canine teeth-tusks.                     [“W” herein is two syllables. Think “Dubya” and remember George W. Bush.]                   The closest pictured animal was an anteater, which I did not see.                                          X marks the mapped meeting spots that we MOSTLY reached.  

Y is for YOU because you’re special and because the ZOO has no YAKS.                  

Z is for ZEBRAS with same-striped fannies  How do not-moms know who’s who?

Hooray for field trips!                                                                                                                             I have trouble even thinking about caged animals, but the sculptures were great.  My favorite was the resting rhinoceros, which looked like a handsome, smooth, bumped, big rock,  almost lost in its surroundings.  Unphotographed.  Sigh.                                           Bring on the arboretum!

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A LITTLE EXCITEMENT

 

A little excitement here.  Charlie tells the tale, [and I edit.]
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We were just walking down the street and I recognized the reporter who fortunately was from a station we watch.  He asked if we’d like to be interviewed and it took about 2 nanoseconds for mom to say “yes!” (I declined and went into the Starbucks to get our lattes) She immediately started telling them how to do their jobs: “be sure to get my good side, don’t show the bald spot, …”.
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[Okay, I did ask them to avoid my bald spot, but ONLY because it looked rashy after 3 hats – bucket baseball, and party hat with chin strap –blew away and left my head exposed to intense beach-sun.  But I did not DIRECT anything, for heaven’s sake.  I just gently reframed a question about “COVID thoughts” by relating my answer to the 24th Ave Pier, which is wonderful, new, and open to all through all of COVID.
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This led to a mention of what to do about the pressing issue of Albert [the junker] from Homer, Alaska, who now hugs the Pier and is an eyesore.  Later I found out that Albert was once an Icelandic Coast Guard warrior who fought bravely against sea-grasping  England in  the Cod Wars. You go, Albert!    Clearly, he needs to begone from the Pier and, if Homer isn’t missing him, maybe whoever lets him live by the Pier should arrange, instead, for Albert to become a seaside memorial made of his cut up metal pieces reformed as public art.  I think the interview team saw the possibilities.
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Only then, as the videographer gathered his gear did the interviewer mention that his colleague was from Maine.  I had mentioned my 35 Roseledge summers, so the camera guy asked, “Where in Maine?”  When I said Tenants Harbor, he paused, looked a bit stunned, and said, ‘“I’m from TH.  My grandfather was caretaker for the Aldrich’s.”  Thus we began the exchange of names that is the Maine way.   I mentioned Tim’s Gramp  Dowling, caretaker for the Smiths, and Tim, the East Wind Inn, he added Cod End and the Millers, and that he had gone to school with Scott!                                            What are the chances?!! ]
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When I came out the filming was done but the Roseledge stories had started (everything leads to Roseledge stories eventually).   [I detect a bit of snark.]
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The next morning at breakfast, I thought maybe one or two of my fellow oldies-but- goodies would have seen last evening’s early local news, so I put on my best humblebrag look and casually rolled in, but no one said anything.  NOT ONE PERSON.  Amy, concierge extraordinaire, had lured them all, ALL, into the Vitality Room / theater at 7p.m., local news time,  to watch “Steel Magnolias.” AARGH! 
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Fortunately, so you don’t have to miss out, Charlie, best son ever, has rescued a bit.  Please note that my eyes are open in this screenshot. If you look at the whole segment [See link below the screenshot.], my ten seconds of fame comes at 1:18 into the segment.
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Burning question:  can you be a star, if no one watches?

mnn

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MIND EXERCISES AMONG THE FLOWERS

Our monthly fitness charge was to frolic among a chart of flowers by tallying our week’s exercise, self-assessing the results and assigning our tokens to “appropriate” flowers. To the Physical Exercises suggested, e.g. walking, climbing stairs, I suggested including Mind Exercises because, as an exercise, my tepid, left-handed wave was, well, tepid, and I wanted to move among the flowers.  Once Mind Exercises were included,  I had to figure out what a Mind Exercise was, beyond the daily routine of Wordle, NYT crossword puzzle, Sudoku, Spelling Bee, and jigsaw puzzles [color analysis].  Three “exercises” come to mind

“Begone rain! Come Spring sun! ” says Seattle’s moving body bag that talks.

I cracked a very funny joke. 

During a Poetry Club reading of poems, Steve admitted to being ill-prepared, but he brought his new book of Amanda Gorman’s poetry [Remember her at the Biden Inauguration?] and had already read one poem.  So, as he readies himself to read a second one and looks AND LOOKS at one page in the book,, I begin to laugh inappropriately hard, and convulsively ask, “Is her poem named ‘Silence,’ and are you to say nothing for 3 minutes?”  Steve looks up at me chortling, maybe crying a bit, and says, “What?”, pauses,  and begins laughing, too.  No one else was laughing or even paying attention.

So I  cracked a joke for sure, but is it even a joke if only the teller laughs? I was saved from this dilemma because Steve laughed with me.  Then he said that he wasn’t laughing at my joke; he was laughing at me laughing at my joke. So problem or no, I cracked a very funny joke, and I’m laughing even as I write this.  I award myself an equivalent challenge of a Statue of Liberty up and down climb of 324 stairs. 

I had a really good idea

I can’t find the NYT article about traits of a resilient person [Jane Brody’s interview with Pauline Boss is good, too.], but I can recall thinking, “Aha! These are the traits of an adapter, who, by adapting, demonstrates resilience!.”  This good idea expands my earlier thinking about “adapting as a way of life and living longer” which I explained to my fellow Oldies, but Goodies here at the Landmark.  I  made up three stages of becoming an adapter – accepting, accommodating, adapting – which, if adopted, should lead to living longer.  And, as we here are all of an age, we are obviously master adapters.   

Now, how exciting would it be if adapting were considered a creative act? Every combo of person, need and situation calls for a singular solution which, when implemented, is a creative act of adaptation.  Become one with the  adaptations and, Voila! you are resilient.  Good ideas happen in an “Aha! Moment”, but they happen only to prepared minds and Zoom calls, visits with friends, constant alertness to possibilities which your son pretends to ignore, reading wisely and, apparently, subliminally, and so on.  For the year- long interspersion of maybe significant thoughts, I award myself a tough, but worthy climb of Ireland’s Michael Skellig 1200 rocky steps.

Gleeful evil Oldie plotting? Or Adapter moving oatmeal?   

I thought of the right book for the right person at the right time.

Call it the teacher / librarian / Roseledge Books soothsayer in me, but I love being able to think of reasons why a certain book might be just right for someone else, but it is is a joy and challenge and friendship cementer that requires perpetual attention. 

 For their wedding, Dazzle, who works with New York water, gets Peter Wheelwright’s The Doorman, a mix of fact and fiction about three generations of intertwined families who saw “their” river in the Catskills be turned into a faucet for NYC users, and Andrew, who works with photography, gets Errol Morris’ Believing is Seeing: Observations on the Mysteries of Photography which the NYT reviewer writes “is an attempt to make sense of the relationship between the documentarian, the documented and the truth.”  Actually, the whole review is worth a read.  For me, the Wheelwright book addresses the nature and nurture of families which is helpful for my family album project [a coming attraction], and the Morris book is among my very few favorite “search books”.   

For their exchange trip to Sweden, the Minneapolis naturalist / educators might enjoy Frederick Sjoberg’s The Fly Trap, about which The Guardian reviewer says,Perhaps the only thing crazier than a hoverfly obsessive would be to write a genre-defying memoir about it and expect to find a publisher and readers. This, of course, is exactly what the writer, translator and biologist has done with The Fly Trap, and a small book about an obscure branch of entomology has become unexpectedly big”  Again, the whole review is worth a read.  The book is one of my favorite memoirs.  

For the perpetual awareness this brain exercise requires, I  think an equivalent challenge might be admiring or hiking the 272 steps up and/or down at Golden Gardens with a ride to and/ or from the park, but for sure with time out for a a latte / book break and lots of ocean ponderings.

And just for the physical exercise record:  I do get a flower for “swimming” each week, during which I walk in, not on, water and with noodle, flutter kick my way to exhaustion.  It’s not exactly swimming, and Charlie helps, but I love it.  

I see a lavish bouquet forming.

 

                                                                               

    

 

 

 

 

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BREAKFAST TABLE TALK

GOOD NEWS ABOUT SEARCHING FOR INFORMATION

In a world befuddled by dis-information or mis-information, a beacon of light appears in Tressie Macmillam Cottom’s column, “How to Avoid Drowning in an Ocean of Information”.

I found it this morning, just in time to share at breakfast. “Not a sure conversation starter,” Charlie, the wet rag, drolled. That, of course, has never stopped me, but just in case it’s a “more coffee, less talk” day, I will share with you her call out to Heather Cox Richardson, whose daily “Letter from an American” I love, and her concluding paragraph, which makes bigger points about finding and choosing from the best available information. Then, I hope you read the whole column.

“Another way to look at information sources is to focus on genre, rather than platform. Newsletters are a powerful entry into the information ecosystem. My theory is that newsletters are an evolution of a very old genre: the new iteration of pamphlets. Political pamphlets are hundreds of years old. They are somewhere between “objective” journalism and polemic. They often present deep explorations of topics and explicitly unsettled arguments. Good newsletters during information events put those window frames up for debate. They are systematic in their analysis of the event but also think critically about the sources that shape the analysis. The historian Heather Cox Richardson’s newsletter is a good example….

A good media diet is about more than diversity of sources. It is also about information with different purposes. Investigative journalism takes time and resources. Social media shrinks time and resources but can respond quickly. Newsletters give context and help us make meaning of information events. We cannot parse everything. The answer to the problems created by scale is to acknowledge that we are not infinitely deep containers that can take on as much water as information demands. We must witness, but we must remember that we have limits.”

 SEARCHING FOR INFOMATION IN LIBRARIES

Another time, the “how to find the best possible information” quest needs to address libraries’ ongoing commitment to neutrality, especially in these polarized and polarizing times, if only to be ready for the next argument with a disagreeable friend. Maintaining that commitment to the “intellectual freedom” that an “enlightened citizenry” needs and deserves from the publicly-supported library, which is, in the words of a friend, “the mind of the nation”, is not easy, maybe even under threat, but oh so worthy of discussion.

A BIT OF NONSENSE

My of-an-age son has 7th-grader humor.  Sometimes funny.  Sigh!

SEARCHNG FOR INFORMATION TACTICS

After 40 years of trying to provoke people to care about why they think they know something, I’m now just a frustrated information user who, in the midst of mis-, dis-, or just plain bad information, hopes today’s info-nerds have better ideas about what to do.    Here are a few ideas, with my “interspersions:”  

“Estonia mandates everything from how online content is created to how statistics can be manipulated, lessons about social media, trolls, the difference between fact and opinion and what makes a good source. [Good, but better would be Information as a moving thing, e.g. distribution, change/editing, flowing from source through deltas to merging,…]  

“[Finnish] High school students are given a series of political topics and asked to compile lists of stories and commentary from across the internet, then investigate the veracity of claims. [Vague on skills needed and tactics used to compile and investigate]

”[Stanford History Education Group suggests] that kids learn how to assess the reliability of the specific information they’ve found online, who published it and for what purpose, thus look at the whole ecosystem in which the information resides.” [Life  or “ecosystem” of information is a good idea, but the Internet makes distribution a study in itself, with change of purpose possible at each “growth” spurt.  Frankly, this approach sounds simplistic.]

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Whew!  Good to be finished with that.  I need the tab space for my current Poetry Club assignment of choosing 3 poems from a list of international poets.  ARGH!    Too much angst and flowery language, too little good-nature and crisp-ness. So, thanks to Kathy’s good idea, I’m trying to use the Japanese “founding” of  haiku as sufficiently international to use  Japanese-ish, Caroline Lazar’s very funny NewYorker haiku.  I also need to either “mediate” translator differences in addressing Wislawa Szymborska’s poem, “Psalm”, or just accept all of the differences in one version and be done with it.  Sniff, humph, or say what you will, I’m having a very good time.

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SLOGGING THROUGH OMICRON

We’ve had the first ever cases of COVID in my building. Sigh.  Cases still dribble and we have to be K95 masked, but the breakfast regulars who were or near the infected are back, enjoying treats and each other, and creating false rumors, as only the hard of hearing, sitting  6′ apart in a noisy dining room can do.  I love breakfast, even with the crankies.

But with each COVID threat alert, Charlie worries about me and frets that I may die before preparing  some kind of “clippings file” to ready him for memorial comments, as his dad did.  I’m sure this current fret arises now also, because John Madden and Harry Reid and, earlier. his dad died at 82, which now I am also.  So he asked me, again, to tell him “my stories.”  I’ve explained that any story needs a reason and an audience because the particulars of the story may vary.  It’s the Irish way.  He humphed.  He is a great humpher.

Then, as I read Bob Moses’ NYT obituary, which included his work with teaching math to children, and Charlie taught math to often ill-prepared undergrads, I aha-ed and regaled Charlie with a story.

When I was about 4 or 5, during the War, my dad took me with him to work.  He owned the Coast to Coast hardware store in a building with a basement bar which dad tended, sometimes with me in tow.  I still remember climbing up on the bar stool between two regulars who taught me numbers by pulling tabs or tickets from a jar.  I had great fun.     “It was a speakeasy!” Charlie noted with unseemly glee.                                                                 “No, it was not.  I’m not THAT old, for heaven’s sake.  Prohibition was long over, and dad was the Mayor.”                                                                                                                             “Yeah, but the jar of tickets or tabs was clearly gambling and probably illegal!” he said with ever more glee.  “And speakeasys were dens of illegal gambling.  You grew up gambling in a speakeasy.  You were an early criminal! ”                                                                  I protested, but he was off to share the news.

Clearly, retold stories are not the way, but his frets remain.  Building on the criminality of my speakeasy days,  I offered to tell him the stories behind the art on my walls.  Charlie enthusiastically proclaimed “copyright violation!”  I said it was a one time, personal use, which was allowed.  He countered, “You only own the paper and paint, not the picture, and, also, you might make money!”  I pointed out that my twelve blog readers, quadrupled from my pre -facebook three, were hardly a threat.  And somewhat smugly, I noted that I was not misusing anything;  I was creating a new experience of telling  about storied art with a floppy pointer, which I call “Incorporation Art.”

For example Nina Simone’s commissioned watercolor of the first home of Schaumburg Township Public Library is the background for stories of my time there, and, thus, my first foray into Incorporation Art.  The stories ae many.  I was 24 with a half-finished library science degree and ready to leave teaching high school English and math.  I spotted the posted notice on a 3″x5″ library card: “Wanted: Someone with the pioneer spirit.  Call 529-3373.”  I did and, with no experience, sone imagination, and a lot of energy, the Board gambled, and we were off.  During the next 4 years,  The Township awarded us money to build, plus extra for air-conditioning, and I got to plan the new library building, walk possible sites, host a 6 a.m. groundbreaking to catch the commuters, design and furnish the interior, and have Charlie just in time for him in his playpen to be part of moving day with a book-chain and lots of volunteers.  The Board commissioned 4 watercolors to celebrate and remember our founding home. Today’s Schaumburg Library  is bigger and in some ways better, and so is Charlie, but the founding years were keys, as the stories tell.

Below the STPL, Charlie’s picture, backed by a very faded box of “Wheaties, Breakfast of Champions” is my second example of “Incorporation Art”.   Someday, maybe, they will have narration, too.  I think Charlie’s is his college graduation picture.

I’m founding mother of Schaumburg Township PL ’63, and of / Charlie, number one, only, best son, ’65.

On a different track, I considered using Nikki Giovanni’s poem, “My Favorite Teacher,” as a story springboard, and substituting my similar early library adventures, after my mother called the librarian and told her to let me take out any books I wanted.  But whereas Nikki Giovanni’s choices suggest a mind expanding onward and upward as she grew into a whole person of note, mine were, shall we say, generously,  evolution of a core-less generalist.  I’ve had, and till have, great fun seeing the world through the eyes of many others.

This is Nikki Giovanni’s poem, “My Favorite Teacher.

The reason Miss Delaney was my favorite teacher, not just my
favorite English teacher, is that she would let me read any book I
wanted and would allow me to report on it. I had the pleasure of
reading The Scapegoat as well as We the Living as well as Silver
Spoon (which was about a whole bunch of rich folk who were
unhappy), and Defender of the Damned, which was about
Clarence Darrow, which led me into Native Son because the real
case was defended by Darrow though in Native Son he got the
chair despite the fact that Darrow never lost a client to the chair
including Leopold and Loeb who killed Bobby Frank. Native Son
led me to Eight Men and all the rest of Richard Wright, but I
preferred Langston Hughes at that time and Gwendolyn Brooks
and I did reports on both of them. I always loved English because
whatever human beings are, we are storytellers. It is our stories
that give a light to the future. When I went to college I became a
history major because history is such a wonderful story of who we
think we are; English is much more a story of who we really are.
It was, after all, Miss Delaney who introduced the class to
“My candle burns at both ends; /It will not last the night; /But, ah, my
foes, and, oh, my friends— /It gives a lovely light.”  [Edna St. Vincent Millay poem]
And I thought YES. Poetry is the main line. English is the train.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The library books I remember without really trying were, in no particular order, a biography of Hetty Green, my first miser, Louis Auchincloss‘s books about NYC’s “upper crust”, Alan Paton’s Cry the Beloved Country and Too Late the Phalarope, about appalling apartheid in South Africa, Thomas B. Costain‘s English history, Nancy Drew, Erle Stanley Gardner, Agatha Christie began my lifetime of loving mysteries, Mikhail Sholokov’s And Quiet Flows the Don and other fat Russian novels during one summer, Neville Shute’s  On the Beach, my only post-apocalyptic novel, and Cleveland Amory‘s books about Boston society.  Freshman fall semester of 1957, the flu broke out and kept us infecting and healing in the dorm, where I read the only non-textbooks I could find, which were Peyton Place by Grace Metalious and J.D. Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye.  As I compiled this, all I could think was “AARRGGHH!!!  My mind has no there there!”

So, to give Charlie something bookish, but more substantial, to remember me by, I made a list of my favorite memoirs, each of which twigged something of me as I read.  Here it is.  I love each one all over again in my thinking about them:

Fourteen of my long time, most favored memoirs, 2021 list:                             Fishing with John, by Edith Iglauer                                                                                              Lab Girl, by Hope Jahren                                                                                                               The Scotch, The story of a community where money was the root of much vir, by John Galbraith                                                                                                                                    Old Books,Rare Friends: Two literary sleuths and their shared passionby Madeline B. Stern and Leona Rostenberg                                                                                          Swimming Studies, by Leanne Shapton                                                                            Principles of Uncertainty, by Maira Kalman                                                                        Travels with Herodotus, by Ryzard Kapucinski                                                                  Caught in the Web of Words: James A.H. Murray and the OED, by K.M. Elizabeth Murray                                                                                                                                      The Snoring Bird: My family’s journey through a century of biology,  by Bernd Heinrich                                                                                                                                               The Thread, A Mathematical Yarn, by Philip J. David                                                          The Double Helix: A personal account of the Discovery of the DNA, by James Watson                                                                                                                                      So Many Books, So Little Time, by Sara Nelson                                                                       Frankie’s Place: A love story, by Jim Sterba                                                                               A Place in Normandy, by Nicholas Kilmer

I haven’t checked with Charlie yet, so so-far so-good. He hasn’t humphed.  Asking “Who am I?” gets trickier when first trying to figure out “Who does he think I am?”.

Coming soon:  The Poetry Club’s  most memorable recent moments, which include a new-ish poem form, and the question, “Does a joke require someone else laughing?

 

 

 

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MORE FROM THE PRE-POST PANDEMIC

I intended for this post to be posted several weeks ago, but things kept cropping up.  For example, I had the introductory sentence, which connected the disparate ideas.

 ‘Tis the season to be jolly, grateful, generous, and thinking about things.

But then, I started thinking about what “thinking about things” means.  I love thinking about things, that time when you figure out what a brain flicker  means and what you are going to do about it. 

That in-be tween time idea reminded me of T.S. Eliot’s quote [from The Rock, 1934]:  “Where is the Life we have lost in living? Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge? Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?”   The DIKW crowd added “data”, for unsorted information and “wisdom” for TSE’s “living.”  I  would use the more permeable learning” instead of “knowledge” and the less conclusionary “to act or to do something” instead of “living” or “wisdom.”  This means that when I am thinking about things, then, I am learning, which is true and worthwhile, because it is what I mostly do.   

 I should have moved on, but then I found a “thinking about things” ally in Billy Collins. who wrote  [from “The Function of Poetry”]  “Pretty soon, it was lunchtime. / I wasn’t at all hungry / but I paused for a moment / to look out the big kitchen window, / and that’s when I realized / that the function of poetry is to remind me / that there is much more to life / than what I am usually doing / when I’m not reading or writing poetry.  Clearly, he is advocating looking out the window and  thinking about things while living your life [T.S. Eliot], or reading and writing poetry [Billy Collins], or doing a jigsaw puzzle and listening to public radio [me].

Finally, I am getting to my current outrage.  The Seattle Times headline says it all.  The Vikings Firsters are at it again:  “Nordic Museum [new labyrinth]  exhibit recalls Viking influence in Ireland .” 

Shamrock dominates labyrinth.  YES!  Now who is the influencer?

The Vikings surely DID NOT “influence” the Irish.  Good grief!    It’s true that the Vikings invaded Ireland, but it’s also surely true that the educated, early Christian, Irish monks who had quietly and long meditated ‘mongst the mazes was unlikely to be “influenced” by the loud, brutal Viking invaders who marauded, extorted and dallied among the lovelies, especially as the invaders made only stone mazes in order to trap [or trip?] their enemies.  If anyone influenced the other, surely it was the Irish monks, who, by or in the 900’s, were tired of the interlopers and who, led by the spirit of St. Brendan the Navigator,  taught the Vikings how to do as they had already done and sail the longer distances to the New World. 

“Did you read that in a book or did you make it up?” my brother-in-law asked, skeptically.  “A little of each,” I replied, piously.  “It’s the Irish way.”  “Humph,” humphs my b-i-l.

 Labyrinth justice will prevail, though.  I am going for subtle.  Think “hubris shaming” and check out Charlie in the tee shirt, above.  Now I am trying to find a Banksy-wannabe to spray paint a giant shamrock enclosing the labyrinth that I am tearing up with my speeding wheels in the picture below. 

Encompassing green shamrock will add  definition and mystery.

Maybe some performance art titled “Entente” with my favorite Nordic artist colleagues would be good.  Think yoga-posing,  balletic-flitting, and meditative- wheelies collaborating.     Take THAT, you Vikings Firsters!    

———————————————————–

RESPONSES TO COMMENTS, which I love to get, but to which I am the worst  answerer ever.

 Several of you, which is legions among my readership, asked for a picture of The Colleen.  Thanks to my brother-in-law, Ralph for taking this picture when last he was walking by.  And Scott says he is waiting for the leaves to fall so that he can get a picture of The Colleen’s long, white-shingle over concrete blocks, windowless side.  With these two efforts, I will surely remain, a Bev noted, the designated-namee of a mystery building.  I think the whole thing is great.

Whiteledge, born Roseledge, with The Colleen looming, keeps it’s peace on Sea Street

Others of you among my quadrupling readership asked,                                                                      “How and where are you?” 

I am still spry of mind, and sometimes opinionated.  The body? Not so much.  But with Charlie and my wheelchair, I do do some and could do  more.

 For example I could tow his golf bag and drinks cart.                                                                He is not  persuaded.                                                                                                                       I am not deterred.                                                                                                                                   I can and do  make the computer go weird,                                                                                  He says, “The machine doesn’t like you,” then figures it out and grows in his marvelousness.  I take full credit.                                                                                                       A mother’s work is never done.                                                                                                           I say “I have a plan [or a thought],” or “I can help you,” or “We should….”                                 Charlie sighs and says those are his least favorite words.                                                               I smile winningly, then  have another really good idea.  

He halts the brewing coffee to bring me a perfect cup.  I sip with pleasure and admit I’m spoiled.   He says I am a difficult person.  Charlie is my godsend.  And long lifers are always an adventure at Ballard Landmark in Seattle.

—————————————————————–

And finally, in closing:  if you’ve not met Noodle and have no idea if today — or any day — is a “Bones” or “No Bones” day, click here, and have a day brightener.

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Notes from the maybe almost post-pandemic

It’s been a week of provocations, but then most weeks are.

Donald Rumsfeld died, which is not an entirely unexpected or unpleasant thing. But reading his obituary reminded me of something he did that was both memorable and silly, instead of just being memorable and bad. You remember his quote:

“There are known knowns that are things we know we know. There are known unknowns that are  things we know that we do not know. But there are also unknown knowns that are things we think we know, that it turns out  we do not, and there are unknown unknowns that are the things we don’t know we don’t know.”                                                   [A mashup from NYT , WP, et.al]

I   wondered if I could apply it to my pandemic life learning style.

There are known knowns that I think about on many days, in many ways,          The Irish CLEARLY beat the Vikings to Iceland, and maybe to Newfoundland.        Libraries matter on all days and in all ways, and may just save the world.                 Adapting is a way of life, and practice promises possibilities.                                           There are a lot of less interesting known s that I only think about when provoked, e.g.  Donald Rumsfeld, Cosmic Crisp apples, photos of dawn, Louise Gluck, Scott’s mispronunciation of Flucker Street, algorithms, regional hotdishes, radio voices, peppy poets, Russell Wilson’s finger, dreadful Texas etc., etc., etc.                                  There are  unknown knowns that are many and memorable gaffes, laughs, apologies, and, on RARE occasion a suggestion that I might have been wrong.  These usually end up in the stories of my life.                                                                                       And there are probably way too many unknown unknowns that I don’t think about because I don’t know they exist to think about, but if I knew they existed, I would certainly know enough about them to have an opinion and take it from there.

…………………………………………………………….

Seattle edges into Fall, or should I say “dribbles”?

How do I know it’s fall in Seattle? Let me count the leaves’ colors.

………………………………………………………………….

AFRGH!  who on earth would choose to watch “Mare of Easttown” hyped as being “in the tradition of Middle American miserabilism, a genre of shows that aren’t about much of anything besides their characters’ despair and the painstakingly rendered small-town or suburban milieus that inevitably cause it.”?  MISERABILISEM?  AARRGGHH!  

Fortunately, I am from the tenth largest city in North Dakota, a Northern Plains state and a daughter of Charles Coghlan, Wahpeton’s youngest mayor, 1942-46, an activist, who controversially purchased land for city airport,  then rented the land to nearby farmers until there were some airplanes, thereby recovering the land’s cost and then some.  For the record, my dad was not the rabble-rousing priest, Father Charles Coughlin, though he would “autograph” an occasional picture, if asked.  I love my dad.

I had a great good time growing up, and I don’t remember a day when I was miserable or bored.  So a big HISS to   “Mare of Easttown .  ”  For other takes on Wahpeton, see Chuck Klosterman’s Downtown Owl and Larry Woiwode’s Beyond the Bedroom Wall. 

I am in a politically delicate situation.  The rocks are an unwanted gift, not able to be returned or re-gifted.. What is an aging activist to do?   Fortunately., I have a willing and abler ally.

“Rocks, begone!” say unruly Landmarkers, as they tend bee-happy grass.

I  am my father’s daughter.

……………………………………………………………………………….

And finally, a library story that ends well:                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          Barak Obama is not going to have a presidential LIBRARY.  ARGH!  He is going to have the Obama Presidential  CENTER.  Sigh.  With a big MUSEUM.  More sighs.  I have had so much fun planning the entrance as a reading room with pods , inspired by Maya Lin’s Smith College transformation and Frank Gehry’s expansive vision for UM’s Weisman Art Museum.  But I intend to continue curating an accessible, provocative, well- connected collection of works that address the mystery of Barak Obama, just in case his people see the error of their ways.

But there is good news.  Almost simultaneously, I  am the designated namee  of  the handsome, mystery building, literally looking over Roseledge, and no, it is not a barn, a garage, or a CIA  fortress of secrecy.  It is rather a library/vault, housing, I think, family treasures, organized, accessible and filled with  possibilities, and it is named The Colleen.  What a treat!  I love it.  It, like the formerly red Roseledge, is a worthy addition to what Scott has called  “white house row” on Sea Street It is Roseledge Books reincarnated or reimagined, maybe.

Until more exciting provocations…

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GOOD TIME MINUTES

MINUTES OF THE POETRY CLUB, September 15, 2021

Intrepid Convener Gary, as always, set our task: to write two Limmericks [sic] in the style of Gary.  I amended the task.             

Limerick 1:  AND NOW, SO DO I.

There once was a bird artist named Edward Lear,                                                                  whose poems of  5 lines were both pithy and clear.   

A limerick, it is, he said with panache.                                                                                          Add witty and bawdy, agreed Ogden Nash.

But Gary wants more — 4 couplets, 8 lines,                                                                                     to capture his many cavorters’  entwines.

Then comes to mind  dad, who loved  Nash’s stuff,                                                                      and thought 5 true lines were poetry enough.

And, now, so do I.

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Discussion:  I quite liked my own effort, especially finding out that Edward Lear was a bird artist, and, I thought, cleverly arguing for the traditional format which I then used in my second limerick, but no comments and only very modest applause followed.

A surprise blueberry — colorful, maybe tasty, wrinkled, lovely.

 

LIMERICK 2:  YOU GOTTA HAVE HEART

 We of the Landmark, an unruly lot, may not act with amazing grace.

But our lobby bobby is up to the task of helping us save our own face.

He’s a   mixer, a fixer,                                                                                                                              a tonic, an elixir,

A man for all seasons, a man for all reasons is Devin, the heart of our place.

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Discussion:  Frankly, I thought this one bordered on excellent, but                                          Steve noted, “You should have titled it, “Ode to Devin.”                                                        I pointed out, ”Devin’s not dead.”                                                                                              Steve: “You don’t have to be dead to have an ode.  Dee [another Poetry Club regular] titled her poem to her dead friend, “In Memoriam.”                                                                Moi: She retitled it when her friend died, and she didn’t call it an “ode” when her friend was alive. [I checked later and Steve was right.  You can be “oded” and alive, but I didn’t tell him and kept the original title.]                                                                                                     Moi cont’d:  Besides, you are just mad because I said that “banshim” is not the word for ‘male banshee,” and    is probably not a word at all.  More likely it’s “banshehee.”  [I checked later.  A male banshee is a “ban-he,” which is not nearly as much fun and should be changed, at leahst, maybe to “ban-hee.” ]                                                                                      Steve:  “Banshehee” is just silly, doesn’t rhyme with “gym”, and also is probably not a word. 

Gary signaled that it was time to stop, so I graciously did not question Steve’s credibility as an Irish word fiddler.  There is always next month’s meeting.

Unruly hat on an unruly head — get the mask.  Time to go rogue.

  And one last haiku for the road. 

  Gary is GREA—AT!                                                                                                                               I love Poetry Club. where                                                                                                       differences can be fun.

Thinking of you, Marcia, and fondly remembering Kathy Lewis’ poetry class at Metro State.  Good thoughts.

 

 

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